Farewell, my fat furry friend

It was a girl and a temporary bout of insanity that led to me owning a cat – and until that happened, I never understood how adults could become so attached to these tiny fur-covered psychopaths. Quite frankly, I thought it a sign of emotional, if not mental, deficiency.

And yet … I began to change.

At first I simply wanted to be a decent cat owner: I patted it, fed it, tried to do the right thing. But over time it grew on me: it even stopped becoming an it and became a he. And although his hobbies including slashing the soles of my feet as I slept and drawing blood from all my friends (and it isn’t like I had that many to start with), I began to regard him as more than just a pet – in fact, as readers of this site know, I became quite enamoured of him.

Everyone who met him thought he was a demon from hell. I’ve seen battle-hardened vets tremble in his presence and an ex-bouncer flee when my cat went for the jugular – but I saw my cat’s softer side. I alone knew how he looked when he’d curl in a ball after a long day of swiping at me, and I cherished the 15 minutes a day when he’d call a truce, leap into my lap and purr coquettishly as I patted him. Quite frankly, that’s still more than most of my ex-girlfriends ever allowed me to do to them.

In short, I adored that fat fiendish feline more than any grown man should ever admit to in public – and so I’m heartbroken to report that my muse, friend, bully and flatmate has passed away.

So to send him off in style in my last ever cat post, here is a photographic celebration of the sweetest vicious cat to ever inspire a bar blog:

I had the absolute pleasure of knowing Jackson. I babysat him when you went overseas on a few different occasions. And the joy of being able to sift through your stuff, look through your cupboards and try to hack your computer was overshadowed by Jackson.

I remember the morning that I woke up and couldn’t find him and was running around the streets in my pajamas calling his illustrious name thinking he’d jumped from the balcony. I was incredibly late to work but more so happy, nay elated, to later find him sleeping in a random shelf of your cupboard (that I’d left open the night before after searching for evidence of home-illegal casino setups).

He clawed at my feet while I tried to sleep. He pooed just before I ate and overcame the permeating scent of dinner with his own. He meowed and woke me for breakfast every morning a good hour before I had to wake up. He lamented you no matter how much I tried to tell him that I was his guardian for now. He forced me to hide plastic bags because he always went into them head first. He refused to let me type on your computer by pawing at the keyboard. He sat in boxes like the most adorable creature to be summonsed to this earth. He curled up on the pillow with his fur in my face and purred like a banshee. He was, of all things, wonderful.